


danger comes in bulk

by theelusiveflamingo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, Essos Ass, M/M, costco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:19:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2012472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theelusiveflamingo/pseuds/theelusiveflamingo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Daario, trips to Costco are dangerous.</p><p>But he doesn't mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	danger comes in bulk

The dental hygiene aisle was empty.  A small miracle, but a fucking important one.  Daario weaved down the aisle, clutching at his chest, his eyes darting from left to right while trying not to run.  He couldn’t make a scene.  This Costco had been working out well.  He couldn’t risk getting kicked out, or someone calling the cops and ruining everything.

He stood right in the middle of the wide aisle, staring at mouthwashes and jumbo packs of baking soda toothpaste, trying to catch his breath.  It wasn’t that he was out of shape.  He was in the best shape of his life these days.  It was the adrenaline that did him in.  Each time, the urgency of the situation left him shorter and shorter of breath.  Each time, his predicament felt deadlier, the stakes higher.

And Daario was not the sort of guy who was all right with  _losing._

A family turned down the aisle and Daario made his move, his lungs still twinging but the rest of him burning with the need to make it to the safe point.  The escalator wasn’t so far away; it was a straight shot down the aisle that intersected the one he’d just came from.  But this aisle was full of people and their carts getting tangled up, kids shrieking in a way that made him  _almost_ lose focus.  There were too many opportunities to be touched, here.  He ran his hands over the two blades he carried, one in each pocket, and made the first right turn he could.  He’d have to keep zig-zagging his way towards the escalator like he’d originally planned.  It was too dangerous otherwise.

There were too many fucking  _people_ in this place on a Sunday afternoon, and that was the thing.  Maybe on a Tuesday morning he could make it upstairs and to the safe point without breaking a sweat.  Sure, he could.  He had endurance, strength, speed, skill…But there were too many people today, and any of them could be the  _one,_  the one lying in wait for him with some sort of thin blade up their sleeve, waiting to strike.

The pet food aisle was mostly empty.  There was an old guy with a cane down on the far end, but he was distant enough to let Daario slow his pace and catch his breath again. He leaned against a shelf of huge plastic tubs of dog biscuits and thought for a moment.

When was the last time he’d won?  Four times ago, maybe, or five.  In fact, the last time he’d played this game, two weeks ago, he’d bled.  The asshole had drawn  _blood_.  The wound had been superficial, sure, and it had been lovingly patched up back at home, but still.  Still.  It had stained Daario’s new yellow pants.

And it had heightened the stakes.

_There had been blood._

“Excuse me, son.  Excuse me!”  The old man had a high, squeaky voice like a cartoon character and was hobbling towards Daario, leaning on his cane almost entirely doubled over.  He’d been standing by the 40-pound bags of dog food.  Daario wondered how this old fart had  _possibly_ thought he could lift a 40-pound bag of dog food.

“What’s up?” Daario said, not bothering to sound too friendly.  He’d been resting for too long.  Now he’d have to make up the lost time.  There was still the second floor to get through.

“Would you mind helping an old man out?” he said.  “I have two dogs at home, and they have huge appetites!  Do you think you could help me lift a bag or two off the shelf?”

Daario stared closely into the old man’s eyes.

“You look like a strong young fellow!” he cackled.

Daario’s hands went to his pockets, but the sonofabitch was faster, he was  _faster_.  The old man’s body straightened.  His eyes gleamed, losing about 50 years of age at  _least_.  The cane became a sword, its point suddenky tickling Daario’s throat.

They both were panting now, so deep and throaty and loud it seemed to drown out the announcements over the PA system.

“Uh-uh, I’m winning today,” Daario breathed.  This wasn’t the right moment for his knives, as much as they’d look good spilling some blood onto the clean floors.  Daario spun underneath the blade, fast and neat, and kicked the smug asshole in the back of the knee.  He didn’t want to hurt him too badly—for many reasons, that would not work out to his long-term advantage—but he  _did_ want knock him to the ground to gain some more time.

And so he did.

Daario tore down the aisle and wove through the crowds of people waiting in line for the escalator.  This was where it got the most dangerous, and where he needed to pay the most attention.  He couldn’t pull out his own knives until he was provoked, because his fighting style was flashy and showy, something that’d get the cops called on his ass  _fast_ in public.  He’d felt the prod of a knife in his back in a crowd before, and all he could do then was grit his teeth and pray he could figure out a way to still  _win._

As he moved closer to the escalator, he kept looking around him, making sure nobody was coming too close.  The kick in the knee should have bought him a few moments; then again, he was up against someone with a supernaturally fast recovery time.  At least, he thought, as he stepped onto the escalator giving a wink to the attendant who was eyeing his blue hair, they’d declared the escalator to be off-limits.

He glared at the couple in front of him, at the tired-looking woman with three kids behind him.  Hell, he even glared at the kids.  Daario was no fool.  He knew he couldn’t let his guard down during the game, not even to smile at some chubby baby.

Upstairs, he wasted a valuable few seconds mapping out the store in his mind.  Today’s safe point was the boxes of Frito Lay Variety Packs.  It had been Daario’s turn to choose the safe point, and he’d made his choice carefully on the D train earlier, but now he couldn’t remember exactly where they were.

 _Think, Daario, think_ , he thought, keeping his hands resting on the comforting handles of his knives.   _You can do this.  You deserve to win this thing.  You deserve to win every damn time._

The thought of his beautiful victory cleared his memory.  Right.  He’d have to clear the busy tables of clothing and books, and then after that he’d be home free.

He power-walked through the aisle of soda with his hands in his pockets, tempted to whistle.   He was so close.  So close.

At the table of socks, a man standing next to a woman talking loudly into a cellphone gave him a strange look.

“You couldn’t pull off hair like this if you got  _paid—_ oh, Jesus  _Christ_ ,” Daario groaned, noticing something shiny advancing his way through the piles of white socks. The woman on her phone seemed completely unaware of the fact that there was a trained assassin standing right next to her.  How was this possible?  He’d never understand.

But this was no time to get all philosophical about the strange fighting style of the  _competition_.  He swerved around the socks, wondering if the man was in pursuit.  But he was in the home stretch now.  He could see huge bags of Cool Ranch Doritos in the distance.  He’d never been happier to see bags of chips.  There were just some jars of cheese puffs to dodge around, and then—

His hand connected with the first Frito Lay Variety Pack he saw.

“I won!” he said, letting himself do a victory dance in the aisle.  They couldn’t call the cops just for dancing a little, even if he did have blue hair.  “Who’s the man?  Daario’s the man.  Who’s the man?”

A familiar figure stepped into the aisle, hair—both shades of it—swaying slightly as he walked.  His face showed no sign of the stress of the game, but of course, this was the first time that day this particular face had been seen in the Costco.

“I won!  Look who fucking won this time.”  Daario was still panting, but whether it was from the rush of the game or the rush of winning, or  _both_ , or maybe some other things entirely, he couldn’t tell and didn’t care.  “And it looks like  _a man_ fucking  _lost_.”  He grinned at Jaqen, whose eyebrows were raised.  “Loser.  There’s lobster on sale over there, go buy me dinner.”

“Maybe a man was allowed to win.”

“Awwww.  Is Jaqen H’ghar a sore-ass loser?”

“Sometimes a man has other matters to attend to in a store like this,” Jaqen said, his voice soft and a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.  “Perhaps a man has things on his mind other than a meaningless victory, and takes his time so he can do those things.”

“Kiss my  _ass_ ,” Daario grumbled.  “You don’t think it’s meaningless when you win.  What did you have to do that was so important, anyway?”

“A man had things to buy.  For the decorating of hair, of course.”

“You don’t need any,” Daario said, staring at the red and white of Jaqen’s hair, both colors bold and bright all the way down to his scalp.  “What are you talking about?”

Jaqen held out a bottle of bright blue dye and then draped his arm around Daario’s shoulders.

“God  _damn,_ do I want to kill you right now,” Daario whispered, nestling his head against the red side of Jaqen’s hair.

“A man appreciates the sentiment,” Jaqen said.  “But a man thinks he’d miss a blue-haired fighter far too much to let that happen.”


End file.
